


[Panwink] My Flatmate is an Ass.asssin

by fanfictioning



Series: Black Jaguar Universe [1]
Category: Wanna One (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, M/M, Murder, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 03:45:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12123831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanfictioning/pseuds/fanfictioning
Summary: Please, do not read this series.Instead, go to Wanna One Universe (https://archiveofourown.org/series/825354)Thank you.***My Flatmate is an Ass.and an Assassin.He kills people for part-time job.The day I met his darkness, intertwined both of us into unending spiral of fate.***********This is the Alternative Universe.It is very dark, gloomy and gory.Please be warned beforehand, the usual Pan-Wink personality is not used in this series.If you want the usual sweet-lovey-dovey Panwink. Please do not read this series.This series is very explicit in its expression of violence and hatred.





	1. Chapter 1

a.M

It was a part-time job, he said. Sure, I believed him. Who doesn't? The ones who just hold one job and sticking to it, are all bureaucrats. Only the government job is the sure way of bread-job of monthly paycheck. Even that is not enough, many moonlights. Most of us, if not all, have three to four 'jobs' a day. Said 'jobs' are pitiful enough to be called jobs, they actually should be called gigs. Once in awhile, does its gigs, like your sex life. If you score more than you gig, you are successful.

So, it wasn't such a surprise when my new flatmate told me what he does outside his uni-major.

"Huh, it's nothing special. Just an odd job."

Always close to broke, if not everyday, I inquired of said jobs, sorry gigs. If they have any needs for useless literature-major faggot like me. He shrugged.

"Well, I don't know. The jobs come irregular. Might have to ask the pimp."

Huh, pimp? What, are you an escort? My eyes quicked scanned him up to bottom. Tall, young and handsome. Jet-black hair reminds of the darkest night of the North Pole. Hmm, not bad. I did the same thing to myself. Ah, shit. Maybe I need to cut down on pizza. But what would I eat, if not that? I can't afford that healthy meals, those only live on televisions, collective hallucinations.

He laughed, "No, I do no such thing. Ah, it may depends on circumstances. if it comes to that, sure."

What kind of gig is that? Massage shop? I quickly looked at my hands and arms. Flexing a little bit, fat on my arm sagged and jiggled without any firmness. Strange, everything seems to work against that requirements for any gig. What a useless organism I am.

"No, I'm not a massager. But if the gig depends on that, may well do."

Well, my investigative instinct are no Mr.Watson. May as well ask him outright.

"So, what do you do then?"

The answer came swiftly, like a northern wind from the sea.

"I kill people."


	2. M

b.M

The atheletics department and the stadium was brand-new. May as well be made with gold, 2.5billion. It is refreshing to know where my hard-earned dollars go into. A shithole.

I leisurely walked on the trails to the class. Camus and Gide, Kafka and Satre, and

"I kiil people."

Just like that, my mind plunged into last night.

ooo

Of course, I don't care of all that morality bullshit. Anything goes, eh? Frankly, if any century is best suited for nihilistic attitude of de-moralization, that is now. All the riches buy anything, but poverty. Actually riches sponsor poverty, that is called charity. Anything can be bought, any if bought, excellent. You are marketable. If you can't sell yourself. You are out, literally and figuratively.

No moment in the history, the phrase 'sold-out' has been treated as compliment and met with pang of envy. The question is not 'Why shall we sell ourselves?', but should be along the lines of 'What should I do to out-sell myself?' Everybody is in the pool, only few make out decent or alive. Everybody else, just another useless junk in the shithole.

Anybody does anything to make ends meet. Some sell their soul, some their body, some other's money, sometimes their kidney. Of course, there must be a market for such things.

Assassination.

But the revelation was short and swift. The thing that surprised me, what has reached deep in my heart, was his tone. That phrase was spoken with the tone, as if of 'It's rainning today.', 'It's warm today.' Just another chitchat. I couldn't grasp any mode of feeling from his voice.

Just statement of facts.

The class has already started, I walked and sat by the window. The old man was yammering about something. The 17th century of French Literature...whatever.

Come to think of it, as I've slept on that thought. Killing people is much more moral than selling yourself.

ooo

I surprised myself at my deduction. Maybe some Mr. Watson.

See, selling yourself presupposes your are an object. You are a human capital, resources to be used and thrown away. If you are the seller of the market. There's no getting around that fact. You may dress yourself clean, but whore is still a whore. No matter how much makeup you put on, hobo is just another hobo. We all are, in the global market of things. Those which refuses to objectify themselves, move out or move off. Under the bridge or off the bridge. Your choice, your call.

"I kill people."

I've figured out why I'd felt so fresh at hearing those words, spoken at that tone. The tone. The voice of the subject.

The de-moralization of the human is essential in objectification of the self. No matter how fat paycheck you get, slave is just a slave. Some are fat, others are thin. Nonetheless, you always sell yourself.

"I kill people."

I didn't feel cool at the word 'people', they are just objects like me. I didn't feel good at the word 'kill', just another thing to have ends meet. But that word,

I

I, the subject.

I, the self who is, who does.

Not which is, which does.

The revitalization of the self, the rejuvination of the self, the  
rebirth of the self.

I've met the first person, who actually is.

Not just another object.

I've felt something, which I coudn't actually explain, which I coudn't  
actually understand fully.

That intrigued me.

Perhaps, more than It should have.


	3. M

c.M

The Venice Beach was gorgeous today. Many were out to get some sun, wind, waves. Anything which is not concrete. What are humans without nature, just zombie crawling below concrete lucifer, the skyscraper.

I visited the tattooist shop, where my best friend Woojin works. He jumped ship right after high school as an apprentice at the tattoo shop. Unlike me, he actually knew what he wanted and did it. As I saw him inking one human after another, the thought creeped into me like always. He is doing something that actually exist, while I'm flubbing away for something which doesn't even exist or matter. The 13th century of Italian Literature, whatever.

With a pang of envy and unhealthy amount of self-esteen, which is lack thereof. I was treated lunch at the local sandwich shop. He actually makes some dough, whereas I dutifully donated my earnings into brand-new football stadium. Way to go, dumbass.

The sandwich tasted like sand.

Maybe it was just a beach sand.

Bitch.

ooo

I talked to him about the new flatmate.

"He kills people for a gig."

"That's great."

Huh?

"He is doing the world some service. Somebody has to take out the garbage, even nobody wants to."

Well.

"If somebody pays him to do some justice, the better. Service some justice, while you get some money. Perfectly fine."

Maybe some of those who were killed were not so deserving of that said fate? Maybe it was the other way around?

He laughed, hard.

"Oh, my little friend. You have to catch up on the lingos lately. The justice is the dough, the garbage is no-dollars. Poverty is the perfect crime."

ooo

Sadly, I walked back into the dorm. I wanted to put my little turmoil down. Cleanse myself of pre-modern concept of morality, such a useless concept. Many walked past me, seems like everybody has somewhere to go, something to do. I've thought of the meaing of said life. Everybody seems to be set on something, while I was so lost on meaningless endeavor. The 19th century German Literature, whatever.

I'm not sexy enough to strip, hot enough to escort, skillful enough to massage, connected enough to sell drugs, while every hamburger-flipping is being done by machines.

I need a job, badly. I need the meaning, anything. As much as I was broke, the feeling of self as an object haunted me from day to night, night to day. If only way to justify your existence is by money or violence.

Maybe I should kill some people.


	4. hiS Point of View

d.S - hiS Point of View

The night is light. So are my steps. Only in night, you see the city as it is. Haunted, depressed cave of roaches. Spiders who exploit, ants who work, dogs who steal, cats who observes. We are in the zoo. We are the zoo.

Garbage truck is crawling away. Garbageman, garbageman, why can't you garbage away. The biggest garbage of all of us, the elephant in the room.

The statue of liberty was holding up an ice-cream cone, along with her accounting book to calculate the profit margin. So sweet the ice-cream, so cold the money counting.

How much is it worth? How are you? How are you doing? What do you mean? How much worth are you? How rich are you doing? Whispers, gossips sneaked under the banal chitchats. Envy and resentment, shitting itself in the gutter. That's how I like it, how we make it run. Envy andresentment, make everything go around. Around and around...

ooo

The job was a quick one, so was my walk at night. Really petty dispute, fight over little petty things, such are human roaches we are. The self-proclaimed oppressed counterpart spat out 500 dollars to shelvethe other. 500 dollars. That's how much you are worth thesedays. Perhaps lower. Give a kid a little gun, he'll do the job for you. Maybe for an exchange of a burger, or a shower, or some five dollars.

That's how much you are worth, gentlemen and ladies. Less than some bucks. Work hard like ants, steal like dogs, contemplate like cats, exploit like spiders. But when all is said and done, you are just worthas much as a price of a bullet. Or as several, as most of the guns are semi-auto. Just pull and it goes. Like a ejaculation of a virgin's first  
time.

So much for the romantic first night, lousy job it has been, my first time. I leaked, spewed and poked it away, as any virgin should. Poor lady, my first job. She wasn't so well off, when I finished. Disgrunted smirk on her hideous face, distorted limbs sprawling all over the floor. The blood, like a ketchup over breakfast toast, some egg and butter. 

Overall, she was alright. As her price was worth some burgers.

Yummy those were. The burgers, not her.

ooo

The pimp was there as I left her. Vulgar and professional, she carresses the guns and counts the bullets she loaned me for the job.

"Easy job, Lai?"

Sure it was, just count the bullets. Less than five. Two for the heart, two for the brain, the last for his soul. Bless him, he shall be remembered as 500 dollars.

She nods and shelves the tools away, puts 500 dollars on the table. I put them away without counting.

"Trust much?"

Trust is good, it oils the friction away. Don't want to haggle over five bucks. Watch your words, young man. Some men are worth less than five bucks. Oops, my bad. I shall wash my mouth with soap. Cleanse your sins away, just like I wiped the spilled ketchup off of the floor.

ooo

The dawn was breaking when I walked into the flat. I took a shower and laid on the bed. The morning is coming, and I haven't gotten an ounce of sleep. But my pocket is handsome with some dollars, my mind is fine, my soul was clean.

I slept soundly.


	5. M

-Hyum. Yum. Slurp. Yum.

He ate, gulped, tore and swallowed it up.

-Yum. Yum. Yum.

What gives him such vigor? I wonder.

I look down at the plate like lion looks at meat after his lunch. What is this feeling?

This feeling of non-feeling of un-feeling. Even am I feeling at all? is question to me, what is.

-Yum. Yum.

Why am I not lively like that? Why do I not chase the food, catch it and enjoy it fully like he does?

-Yum.

Is it, is it.

-Yu-

"How can you be so happy?"

Ah.

What a blundering fool. It's embarrassing.

He paused on his munching on, and looked at my face casually. Curiously. What is-

"No, no. Just forget that. What am I talking about. I'm so fool about this."

Ah, I'm blabbing, and I know this. I can't stop it. This is hell.

Ah, why.

After my rude question, he craned his neck sideways a little, front-and-back a little, and answered.

-"The statement is misdirected. It's not the question of happiness or contentment, or even success or eudaimonia. It's the question of life."

Eh.

What the-.

"The life? What, are you telling me I'm dead?"

-"Then, what do you call yourself? Are you alive? You don't know, you can't know. You've never killed a man before. You can't know."

The answer, I felt the hammer back of my head. It touched something deep inside my reptilian brain. What is it, what is it.

"If I kill a man, will I feel alive?"

Ah, what a stupid question. Again!

He smirked a bit, and went on.

-"Mr. Questionaire. Humans aren't atoms or even bits or bytes, p-values. There are no such thing as 'Koreda! Eureka!' which will solve all the ills of the world. What worked for me, might never work for you. So-, shove all the  
easy answers as naive blab or deceiving con-man's words. You ask difficult question and expect easy answers. Only savior will save such men. But savior is not, so devil it is."

He started shoving food upon his mouth again.

I wanted to listen to his voice some more. So, I asked again, another stupid question.

"But I want to listen your ways of thoughts. If the murder helped your appetite, in what way did it do that?"

Murder for appetite.

What a catchphrase.

He licked his lip to clean some ketchup, and went on talking.

-"There was the moment when I felt-after I put the bullet to her skull. I looked at it which was her moments ago. I saw it turning blue, brown, purple, black and grey white. I saw the arms and legs turning stiff like logs. I looked at its face, its face. Its mouth, its eyes. What is it telling? Where did all those her-ness just a moments ago? If everything which made it alive were gone, then what is this which is just plain left-over? Left-over? I saw it becoming dead. Only then I felt.

-I'm alive.

-I'm not 'like this'

-So, I'm alive.

-Mah, it's just mingle of words I'm spewing about now. But the moment was something of spiritual shock. It's like some monk slapped the back of my skull. I didn't have to shave my head and join monastery to relieve the karma of being. That moment was enlightement. It sure was for me."

He paused, and went on.

-"But I can't guarantee the same will happen to you. Guarantee, such thing doesn't exist."

He stopped, and started on eating again.

I just sat there, looking at my plate.

I so, want to eat.

Pour tabete, devour this.

I want to

eat

**Author's Note:**

> ***
> 
> This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All characters and events in this fiction--even those based on real people--are entirely fictional.
> 
>  
> 
> ***
> 
> Hello, this is Jamie.
> 
> Comment and kudos, if you like.
> 
> Thank you.


End file.
